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unknown-ends · 2 hours ago

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the sky under the sea | sylus (qin che)

♡ tags ; afab + fem!reader, established relationship, oral (f!recieving), tongue-fucking as foreplay, face-sitting, unprotected sex, little prep before penetration, tsundere!reader, domination loss but its not too overt, canon-typical sylus petnames (sweetheart, kitty / kitten), lovey-dovey sex, 18+

♡ wc ; 5k (DUDE FUCKKKKK)

♡ a/n; i will see if i delete this or not because im not sure how i feel about the writing. like the concept but im tired so ill see Later. but i need to just . expel it . lmao

title is a reference to a ptv song as usual lately lmao.

♡ synopsis ; you try to run away from sylus' affection. you rarely get very far

"Sit on my face,"

"Sorry?"

"My face," Sylus clarifies, as if that's what you're confused about. "You should sit on it,"

You look over your shoulder. Or you try to. Your body is bent over the edge of the bed in an attempt to rifle through your bag. You're trying to find your charger, and you didn't feel like making it a whole thing by picking your bag up.

You have to wiggle back onto the bed, push yourself up back onto it and make sure that you're steady enough not to fall. You use your arm to push yourself up, and turn your head a second time to look at Sylus.

He's laid across the mattress, and he flips from being on his stomach to being on his back. He's shirtless, still groggy. Unfairly handsome in a way that grates on your nerves when you think about it too long.

Your boyfriends eyes are fixed to one place. His hands reach out from across the mattress, fingers tugging on the edge of your shorts like he's pretending to pull them down.

You furrow your brows. "Go back to sleep,"

"I would if I could, sweetheart," Sylus says, and his still looking. His fingers brush against your skin, tracing the curve where your thighs meet your ass. "There are quite short,"

"They're pajamas," You reply flatly. Sylus grins, slow and lazy.

"Did you buy them for me?"

"Did I buy them for y—oh fuck off, of course not,"

"You wound me, sweetie," Sylus says, his voice airy. "A man can dream right?"

You feel your face go warm, reaching around to smack his hand away. Sylus remains undeterred, fixated on the edge of your shorts as if he's never seen you naked before in his life. You press your lips together flat, use a hand to pull your shorts over your ass, and scooch back onto the mattress to lay down comfortably—without your charger, since a certain someone decided to interrupt.

You attempt to settle back into bed next to him, an olive branch to tell him you're not really mad.

Before you can grab your things to lay down and read, Sylus slings his arm over your waist and drags you to his side of the bed. You make a noise of protest, weakly pushing his arm away.

But he pulls you close to him, dips his head down until you're nose to nose.

"Sit on my face," Sylus repeats, bending down to kiss your neck just underneath your ears, trailing his lips up to tug at your earlobe. "Please,"

"What's wrong with you?" You say with less sharpness then you want. Sylus smiles slightly, his nose nudging your skin.

"I saw something I wanted and now I'm too distracted to fall asleep again,"

You repress a shiver at the bass in his voice when he says this. Something I wanted, conviction emphasizing each syllable. You pull away to look at his face, your lips pulled into a half-hearted frown. His eyes are softened and gentle. A calloused hand traces down the small of your back, groping your ass tight.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, placating. Like he knows if he tries to kiss you any deeper you might bite - yet he finds it worth testing the water anyway.

It's silent for a beat. Your stomach flips, your hands find his arms. You squeeze tight, wanting to sink your claws in but refrain when you decide he hasn't done anything worth really punishing. He smiles at your quiet benevolence, then hums.

"Hm?" He offers, nudging you again. "I even said please,"

You give him another disparaging look, trying to squirm out of his grasp. "I don't feel like going to take a shower,"

He looks at you with a brow raised. "When has that ever stopped me? You can find a better excuse then that,"

You feel your neck get hot. "Well, I might have to take one after—"

"I'll carry you," Sylus offers. "I'll draw you a nice bath. With rose petals and epsom salt and bubbles. I'll use the shower extension on your back so you feel clean. Do you want me to wash your hair too?"

You press your face to him to hide your expression.

"You're too rough when you do it," You lie, straight through your teeth. Sylus laughs.

"I'll work on it. Any further questions, comments, or concerns?"

You feel a sense of irritation as you reply. "...No,"

Sylus wastes no time in manhandling you. You barely know what's happening when he manages to lift your weight onto him entirely, adjusting you in such a way your sitting on his abdomen. Your winded by the sudden movement, nearly dizzy as you place your hands on his bare chest to regain your balance. You stare at him, his hands closed around your wrist to stabilize you.

"All good?" Sylus asks, sincere. You feel an unusual frustration well up inside of you over how good he looks once over. His sharp features softened by sleep and adoration.

You feel your skin prickle. You tuck your chin and look away. Try not to think too hard about anything in particular - especially not how much he wants you in the moment. You can feel it lingering in the air around you, like static.

Your heart rate picks up.

"Just—hurry it up,"

His reply doesn't come, but he nods like everything's come into focus.

Sylus' hands pull you closer. Away from his chest, up slowly until you're hovering over his face.

"Sit up, dove," Sylus says slow. "Stand on your knees for me,"

You look down at Sylus from between your legs as arousal creeps down your spine. His change is disposition unsettles you. Wanting makes your blood run hot, a subtle thrum as you do what he asks.

You sit over him uncertainly.

Sylus turns his head, lips drawing over your inner thigh. The unexpected sensation makes you shiver, almost falling forward. He adjusts himself underneath you. So when you sit his face is right where it needs to be.

Sylus' hands are reverent. He holds the back of your thighs, sliding his hands up slowly towards your ass.

He brings you down to his face carefully. Slow enough to let his touch sink into you. The strength in his grip, the warmth of anticipating breaths on your skin. You feel something in your core tighten. Your hands find his hair to anchor yourself.

"Wait, Sy, my shorts—"

"Leave them on," He says, his voice sounding heavier then it has all night. Gravelly and thick. You find yourself at a a loss, unsure of what about them could possible be invoking this reaction in him. It can't just be over your shorts.

They're silky sure, trimmed with floral lace. Pretty but not something you wore to try and seduce anyone. They're short because you're in the house, and you were trying to read so you're comfortable. Dressed conveniently, hair away from your face. You haven't had your nightly bath, but your face is fresh.

Cozy if you had to put it one way. And it's nice sometimes to wear pajamas that match.

You haven't done anything to put your boyfriend is such a mood, is all. The whole thing gets under your skin somehow. So you find yourself at a loss when you look down and Sylus looks like he's going to devour you. Red eyes rimmed with a visible hunger. His grip almost crushing, severe. He breathes in, then out, timed like he's trying to keep control of himself.

You feel yourself slowly settle over his face. Sylus makes no move to take your bottoms off. Instead you feel his nose bump against your clothed cunt. Pulled down with full force, your knees give. You feel your full weight drop onto his face. You panic on instinct, squirm as you try to sit back up.

But Sylus keeps you there. His hands anchor you in place. You forget easily how strong Sylus is, how much control he can exercise if he wanted to. He so rarely does. He's all delicate and all unmistakably kind, always asks and begs. The illusion of control, as if there's good reason for him to be at your mercy.

In reality, love is the only reason. Something so elusive and unreasonable makes Sylus act like this. Red-blooded and needy, nosing at the seam of your silk shorts trying to memorize exactly what your cunt smells like in heat.

"Sylus," Your voice comes out like a gasp. You can feel him suffocate in between your thighs as you try to move away almost frantically. "What the fuck—,"

He holds you there for another beat, another few seconds of protest before he comes up for air. You say his name again but his voice quiets you, comes out in that heavy way that makes it hard for you to breathe.

"You're wet," He says. Your eyes go wide. "I felt it. You're not wearing anything else underneath, are you? And I've barely touched you,"

The elation in his voice is unmistakable. You breathe in like you've been caught. Don't say anything, don't move an inch. And Sylus just laughs, something that comes from his chest. Riddled with desire. Sylus almost sneers.

"Putting up such a fuss for no reason," Sylus says. His voice is so arrogant. You're too aroused to get angry, no matter how condescending he sounds. Affectionate but mean. It makes you want to fight, all the hairs on your neck raised. "Even when you're this easy for me,"

"I'm not—you're—you're being unfair!," You're trying to be angry but your body is trembling. The bone-deep awareness of how good he can make you feel, how good he's going to make you feel. The illusion comes falling apart quickly, but you don't want to give in so soon. "And I wasn't—it was sudden. I didn't say I didn't want to, I was just—"

"It's my fault you're this fussy. Can't handle how it makes you feel so you bat your paws at me, huh kitty? It's a good thing you're cute,"

You gape at him. "Sylus!"

"What is it sweetheart?" Sylus hums, licking a stripe against the wet seam of your shorts. You twitch over him. "Embarrassed? Or are you getting impatient already? Both maybe?,"

You keep your lips sealed, unsure of how to reply. Sylus laughs at your silence pressing a kiss to your clothed clit. Nuzzles up to you, smiling as you squirm.

"Stop teasing me you son of—nn,"

In your anger, you miss the way Sylus pulls your shorts to one side. His impatience betrays his demeanor, his calm. Sylus enjoys going back and fourth, but it's all a show. All theater. He wants you so badly it seeps through all the restraint. You feel the tips of his fingers sink into your thighs as he settles between your legs.

The first thing Sylus does is taste you. Dips his tongue in your hole, fluttering around the tip of it. You make a small noise as it fucks into you, sinks into your cunt even further. Your body breaks out into a terrible tremble at the sensitivity. Right where it's most shallow where all the nerves are concentrated.

Sylus is trying to commit the taste of your cunt to memory. There's a languid, lazy indulgence to each thrust of his tongue inside you. Neglecting to touch where you want it most but going at it so intensely anyways. It's the only time he's ever greedy in a meaningful way, something to satisfy whatever seems to tempt him.

Your hands find the edge of the headboard as Sylus tongue-fucks you into sensitivity. The sensation makes you mouth go cotton dry, your clit throbbing with neglect. Sylus keeps you captive in his embrace, forced to feel it each time. Again and again, a steady in and out.

You feel your resolve melt. Your nipples pebble from the penetration, body burning up from the inside. The edge of the headboard imprints on your palms from how hard you hold on, helplessly subject to the sensation.

"Sylus," You don't mean to whine. It just won't come out any other way. "Fuck,"

Sylus pulls his tongue from you to lap at your hole rather than, right against all the same nerves. You whine in frustration, pushing yourself against him to get him to touch where you need him but Sylus draws it out regardless. Your body grows aroused. You feel your pussy soaking, hole clenching around nothing. Your hips stutter as you try everything to get the pressure of his tongue on your clit.

You can feel your pride begin to dissolve as the desperation sinks claws into you. Your mind feels hazy, thoughtless as you chase the friction your body knows so well. You whimper, thrashing. Eyes screwed shut with a miserable whine lodged in your throat.

"Sylus," You drag out the syllables of his name. "Syluusss. Please, no more,"

Sylus makes a noise as he pulls his tongue, somehow sympathetic. You find yourself shaky as you wait for whatever next, whether he grants mercy or not.

Your answer comes in the hot stripe of his tongue, sliding through your slick folds until you finally feel it. The soft, aching pressure of it against your throbbing clit. You keen as Sylus runs his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves, pulsing against his tongue. Sticky arousal wetting his chin, dripping down the sides of his face as he eats you out so fervently.

You feel something in your body stir, your insides coiling and twisting - knotting as a steady tension builds and builds and builds. Sylus goes from self-indulgent and erratic to consistent. A rhythmic motion, pressure with intention.

Sylus' sets an unforgiving pace. One that demands your attention. All the muscles in your abdomen tense. Even the hand you place over your mouth isn't enough to silence you completely. Moans slips through the cracks, loud and helpless as you're to the edge

You rock your hips, grinding against his tongue. Moving yourself on instinct and seeking pleasure you know Sylus can grant you. He reads the cues of your body with excruciating finesse, even half-suffocating he knows just how to use his tongue to make you cum so hard, so quickly. Only him.

"Sylus," You pant, threading your fingers through his hair. "Sylus, Sylus, Sylus. 'm cumming, I'm—"

You feel your head spin as an orgasm crashes into you. Every limb tensing before coming completely undone, you cum all over Sylus' face without second thought. White hot stars smatter behind your eyes as you screw them shut, your mind drowning in pleasure.

Sylus laps at your clit as you ride the aftershocks, groaning into your cunt. Satisfied with it like you cumming on his face is the most euphoric feeling of all.

It takes effort to pry Sylus' off of you. He only barely loosens his grip when you seem to convince him, still catching your breath as you back up and away.

Seated on his chest, you make the mistake of looking down at him.

Sylus runs his tongue over his lips. Your heartbeat quickens.

He smiles. "Already done? You can go a little longer then that,"

You make a face at him, roll your eyes when you back up off of him.

"Give me a break," You say, casting your eyes down. "Or at least let me turn around so I can...return the favor,"

Sylus pauses. He hesitates, which immediately grabs your attention. Quick to smooth it over, he shakes his head and smiles at you. You raise your brow. "You don't want me to return the favor?"

"I wouldn't say that,"

You squint as you turn yourself around over Sylus' chest. Making him cum is a good opportunity to still feel like you're equals. Or something. You just know it'd make you feel better.

"Sweetheart—"

You ignore him, inching further towards his waist band. Pushing back the blankets laid over his waist, your eyes widen slightly as they land on his boxers.

You feel yourself swallow, throat thick as you take it in. Sylus' cock is straining through his black briefs, a wet patch of pre that soaks through the thick material. You cautiously hook your thumbs into the waistband of them and tug them away from his body.

Sylus' hisses at the sudden movement, and you almost stop yourself half-way hearing just how...strained he sounds.

Sylus' cock springs free. It's so much, even just looking. Hard and heavy, throbbing. The tip is ruddy, pre-cum drooling all along the length of his shaft, making a mess in his boxers. You furrow your brow, brushing your fingers against it rather then holding it in your hands. Sylus hisses. Confirms that he can't handle anymore than that.

You straighten up. An accusatory tone to mask your arousal. "You look like you're gonna cum untouched. Was it morning wood or something?"

Sylus chuckles, breathless and uneven. "No. Afraid it's just you, sweetheart,"

Your heart is thudding in your chest. You hope he can't tell. You try not to think too hard about it, but your voice falters when you speak. "Y-you look like... it looks like it hurts. You seem really.."

"Turned on? I am," Sylus places his hands on your waist from behind, his hands caressing your skin. "I won't last very long with the way things are,"

This makes you pause. You scoff.

"How long were you planning on us going at it?"

He pretends to think on it. "For as long as you could say yes. I figure we can see what gives first, your voice or your conscious,"

You jolt.

Sylus says it so naturally, so certainly. It sends chills up your spine, makes you want to run away from him entirely. It's something in your disposition that makes you want to run away. The embarrassment never quite settles, never detaches from your nerves. Makes you snippy and difficult - especially around Sylus.

But Sylus likes that about you. He knows exactly what buttons to push and how to get you to act in the way he wants.

The idea of getting fucked unconscious evokes a roughness for most. Something brutal and instinctual. Something more animal then human.

But you know how Sylus means it. That he doesn't mean it like that, not really.

How he likes making your mind break more then your body.

It won't be all that rough. If it's Sylus, he does it like there's all the time in the world.

Sylus hunts like a wolf. He breaks you down slowly, lets the pleasure and the constancy do all the work for him. Likes to inflict pleasure like bite-wounds. Pursuit predation—the exploitation of the fact that Sylus will always outlast you. That his will to claim you is leaps and bounds over your own to survive.

Always a kind of hunt that relies on the element of surprise.

You shiver at the intensity of it all. A cold sweat starts down your spine as you feel his eyes trace the curve. How his hand finds your lower back while you're facing the other way, his thumb pressing into the divots. You squirm where you're seated.

And your heart is beating so fast, like it's trying to escape. Your ribs can't keep the sound contained, all the hairs on your neck stood on end. A familiar warmth spreads between your legs, your voice small when you speak.

"You're scaring me," You tell him, and you mean it in a way.

"Oh? Sorry, sweetheart. I don't mean to," Sylus says back, and you know he doesn't mean it all.

You feel the shift in you. The urge to give in. Your body no longer able to tolerate the sheer need welling up inside you, breathing so heavily and sitting so shakily on top of him. So wet and so antsy under his watchful gaze.

The choice to bare your neck to his sharp teeth or not.

After a while, Sylus speaks. "Have you decided what you want to do?"

It always goes like this, but it leaves your pride in tatters all the same. You can never get used to it, never let your guard down - even though around Sylus is the safest you'll ever be.

You screw your eyes closed and give in.

"...Want you to fuck me,"

"And after?"

"Nn...don't stop"

Sylus grows smug. "Until?

You frown, already out of your depths. "Don't be like that,"

Sylus laughs. "You were doing so well for me, kitty. If you already can't speak, we're in trouble,"

You make a noise of frustration. "Ugh. Just... just do whatever you want. But stop making me—"

All too quickly, you find yourself being manhandled again. One minute on top of him and underneath him the next. Sylus flips you onto your back swiftly, smoothly - half-way through your sentence when you're looking up at him. It makes you gasp being handled so roughly, and interrupted mid-sentence.

You go to make a complaint when your eyes meet. You feel your pulse as Sylus dwarfs you with his own size. He hovers, his cock now resting against your cunt. The skin to skin sends arousal flooding your brain. You open your mouth just to close it again, at a loss for words feeling his cock against you.

"Whatever I want is a very dangerous thing to ask of me," Sylus says.

You grow restless. "Don't—it's your fault. I was going to read and you—you seduced me like some kind of—"

Sylus laughs. A deep belly laugh that disrupts you in your faux anger. At the sweetness. The warmth and the affection in makes you quiet.

"Did it work? Me seducing you, I mean,"

You pout. "It's rude to ask when you know the answer,"

Sylus' hands find the back of your neck and for the first time of the evening, he kisses you. It sends you reeling. Tender, all raw nerves and adoration. You whine into it, melt into it. Like flowers blooming in your chest, Sylus pulls away and presses your forehead together.

"Tell me how you want it. As recompense," He says warmly. You huff.

"...Just put it in. Slowly,"

"Are you sure? I'm worried it'll hurt you,"

You frown, wondering why he bothered asking but warm over his concern. You sigh. "It won't hurt me. It's more like an ache and... well, I kind of like it. 's hard to explain,"

Sylus breathes out. "I'm not sure I'll survive asking, but okay"

Sylus finds your hand to hold, grasping tightly before he eases the tip of his cock into you. Up close, his reaction is immediate. His expression pinches almost like it hurts. He keeps good on the promise of slowly, and doesn't move after the tip is in. He makes sure to give you enough time to get used to it.

You watch him in interest. How he strains himself for your sake, fighting the desire to push in completely.

Your hand comes up to stroke his face, and Sylus leans into the touch.

"Is it my turn to be seduced?" He asks, playfully.

You roll your eyes. "I'd put in more effort than this,"

Sylus laughs again. You can hear the fond exasperation in it.

"I appreciate the sentiment but," Sylus leans in and kisses a line from your collarbone up to your jaw, just underneath your ear. "It's not like you need to try very hard. You understand that right, kitten?"

Sylus pushes himself into you again. It's a gentle rock of hips that eases in. Sylus is so big you forget. It slips your mind often enough. You're usually too fucked out to appreciate it. But you feel it now, every time he moves. Invasive and searing hot, stretching your cunt open so slowly. It makes you keen with need, your arms around his shoulders - nails digging into his hardened muscles of his back. It aches so good inside of you, feels so right it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Sylus kisses you again. Your jawline, the corner of your mouth. And he keeps talking without hesitation. "I do like when you go out of your way. All we need to be is in the same room. You should already know I never take my eyes off you,"

You just whimper. Don't know what else to do with yourself but make a small sound and try to hold it together. Sylus moves again. Another shallow rock of hips that eases him deeper, opening you up so completely. Filling you until you feel whole.

"All it took to get me worked up like this," Sylus murmurs, his hands grasping your hips. "Was to see you bent over the edge of my bed," His grip grows tighter. "Struggling with something. Seeing your shorts ride up, so defenseless, was all it took to get me all worked up. It'd do you some good to be a little more self-aware,"

You're amazed by your own ability to speak in the moment, but you suppose mouthing off to Sylus is something like second nature.

"Self-aware a-about what?"

Sylus pushes again, just a little further. Just a little more. But you're stretched now, and you're ready. You feel yourself get slick around his cock. Walls spasming around his length like you're trying to suck him in without letting go. You feel hot. It stops hurting and starts feeling like you need his cock in you now, and you start wanting it so bad you shake. Your legs close around his waist, urgent as you writhe around. Trying to goad him silently into giving all of it to you, all at once.

You feel drunk on cock in a way that's unmistakable. Only possible with Sylus, only plausible when you're with him. It's that uncanny ability he has - the pleasant contrast of his general disinterest and how it pairs with his passion for you, his desire for you. Passion he uses to carves a space for himself inside of you that can't be filled by anyone but him.

His single-handed ability to make you feel like you're the only thing he's ever truly wanted in his life.

And maybe you are. But you can't let yourself fall too deeply in the notion, because you're sure it'd swallow you up.

Sex always reinforces that you're all Sylus ever thinks about. It's how you play the game of cat and mouse. You run away from the intensity of it all and Sylus makes you remember. And you can't crawl away. It'd be like trying to outrun the sky. You look foolish in the attempt, but it'd drive you even more mad to do nothing.

"Aware of what you do to me. It'd be in your best interest to learn, kitten. Otherwise, you're destined to keep losing to me, just like this," Sylus hums, and he holds you, and thrusts his cock so deeply into you - you can feel it in your lungs. "It's starting to feel like that's what you're after,"

Your mind splinters. It does feel good to lose. To give into him. You hate how good it feels, how euphoric. Sylus never subjugates with force, but you feel the weight of it anyway. Burdened with the understanding. It feels like something inside you is being crushed when Sylus fucks you like this. When you let him have his way with you after evading it with all your might. His cock is ruining you and it feels so good to feel so pathetic. To have your pride crushed this way, even as Sylus treats you with so much care.

You cry out. You whine. You dig your nails deep into his shoulders and beg. And beg and beg and beg - utterly helpless. You feel so defeated by him, and it makes you feel so fucking good.

"Fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please,"

"Of course, kitten," Sylus grunts, pulling all the way back out before sliding all the way back in. "Anything for you,"

Your body goes limp in his grasp as Sylus fucks you recklessly. The pleasure makes your mind go blank, your eyes rolling back up and your mouth fallen open. You can't stop moaning, can't keep quiet. Sylus fucks you again and again and again. You feel betrayed by how well he seems to keep his composure.

You're going to cum again soon. You're just on the edge of it again, and it's humiliating because it's not even the first time. Your words come out in messy, fractured fragments.

"G-gonna, hngh, gonna c-cum soon, Sylus, Sylus,"

Sylus fucks up into you with purpose. Pistons you while he keeps you in place, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix on each pass. "Go ahead and cum sweetheart. Be a good girl and let me feel it,"

You let go a second time. You cum even harder then the first, your cunt squeezing tight. Sylus stutters in his movements as you suck him in, spasming over and over as it washes over you. Your legs tighten around him, begging softly for him not to move. To just stay there so you can feel it.

And Sylus listens. His thrusts go sloppy, shallow before you feel him follow suit. He cums with a shudder, a deep low groan next to your ear that makes your stomach fill with butterflies.

Sylus stills inside of you, breathing heavily as you both take a minute to recollect yourself.

You break the silence first. "You're heavy,"

He chuckles. "Should I move?"

You frown. "...No, but just. Stay still. For a little bit,"

"I thought I was heavy?"

"You are. But it's...nice,"

He nods. So docile after all that fuss, you think. You're always destined to end up here again, but for once - he's kind enough not to say anything. He just holds you close for a little while and indulges you.

Like a gift for being obedient to him, no matter how temporary. He kisses your forehead. It kind of makes you want to cry.

"Then we can stay like this. For a little while."

#I am somehow horny and soft at the same time

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unknown-ends · 3 hours ago

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@comatosebunny09 BUNBUN, COME 'ERE

Bet you didn’t know you needed Sylus in a crop until now.

Thank you SO MUCH! @sylusslittlekitten for this absolute MASTERPIECE!! 🥵🙌🏻😩 . If you’re not following already, please do. Their blog is incredible. 🙌🏻❤️

Sleepy rut Sylus approves 😏🤭🫧

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unknown-ends · 3 hours ago

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Managed to sleep the night away and now I don't know what to do

#unknown-thoughts

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unknown-ends · 3 hours ago

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Another drabble based on the new promise card but make it Snowcrow <333

Fourth LADs Masterlist

Zayne could tell from the moment Sylus came home how tired he was. Not just because of the rising sun, either. An exhaustion that's bone deep, that draws out sighs and quiet grunts from him as he moves about the space.

He kisses his temple on his way to the bedroom, murmuring something near-incoherent to bid him a good morning and wish him a good day. Zayne tracks him all the way there, past the door, lazily kicked shut behind him.

Fortunately, it's his day off.

So he sets his sweet coffee aside, places the dishes from breakfast into the sink, and follows that same path. He's quiet as he slips past the door. Glances over at the hulking figure of his partner stealing as much of the bed as possible as he detours briefly to the ensuite bathroom. He returns with a small bottle of fancy massage oil, and gently brushes white hair from a grimacing face.

"Would you like a massage, my love?" he asks softly.

The cadence of his voice alone is enough to have the tension easing between Sylus's brows. He returns a barely-there nod and a low, grumbling hum in answer, and Zayne smiles to himself at how endearing it is to see him so defenseless and at ease.

He drags light fingertips down his spine, drawing out the subtle flex of muscle at the ticklish sensation. The bed shifts when he climbs up onto it, straddling his legs and resting only some of his weight on thigh thighs. Sylus had at least bothered to strip down to his underwear, even if he couldn't manage a shower. He finds himself rubbing the muscle of his thighs as he stares at the expansive back before him.

Zayne is methodical. At first, all he does is study the skin and muscle, searching for hints of injuries left behind by an exhausted Evol. He's glad not to find any, because it means Sylus either healed any wounds already and healed them completely, or there were no injuries at all.

Then he pours some of the oil from the bottle into his palms. He's all too aware of how cold his hands can be, from patients flinching away with soft gasps and teasing from his own partner about it. To circumvent this, he rubs his hands together quickly, warming the oil with the friction between his palms. The fresh scent of jasmine fills the air.

With firm pressure and a skilled touch, he starts at Sylus's lower back and presses his hands up along the sides of his spine, over tense shoulder blades and across wide shoulders. The response is immediate: gentle groans and hums of pleasure from the great leader beneath him, muscles relaxing and breaths coming deeper with relaxation.

He presses his thumbs down on the sides of his spine and follows the line to the waistband of his underwear, then uses his full hand to press up along his skin once more. He curls his fingers overtop his shoulders, squeezing and pressing and working out the tension he holds there. He's careful working on his neck, lightly resting his fingers along the sides of his throat so that his thumbs can massage into his nape up into the small white hairs. That spot always draws the deepest sigh, long and low.

He goes over his entire back multiple times, ensuring he works out every ounce of tension and stress from Sylus's long night. By the time he finishes, skin glistening with oil and lightly red where he worked the muscle deepest, Sylus is fast asleep, snoring into his silk pillowcase without a care.

Zayne dismantles from him as smoothly as possible, doing his best not to rock the bed as he gets to his feet. Sylus's sleeping face greets him, the furrow in his brow disappeared entirely and mouth parted around his breaths. He smiles to himself, happy to have assisted his partner.

With a ghosting press of lips to his cheek, Zayne puts the oil away in the bathroom and slips unheard out of the room, content as he starts his day.

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unknown-ends · 7 hours ago

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other ask games are too sexual or romantic and i dont like that so im making my own, bitch

🫂 - i wanna hug you

🧠- i love hearing you talk. you should ramble to me more often

🫀- i love you in a deeply concerning platonic way

💿- i wanna listen to music with you in a treehouse in a summer night

🌷- i wanna shittalk people with you and just be haters together. it would be fun

🪻- you are so so cool and awesome oh my god

🌻- im proud of you

🍄- you didn't deserve what happened to you

🌵- you could stab me and i wouldnt mind as long as its you

💧- you are an important presence in my life

🍬- id go to a candy store with you and steal all the candy

🕹️- i wanna go to an arcade with you

🕰️- ill love you until the end of time, dear friend

🥊- id beat someone up with you

🌑- you worry me sometimes. just remember im here if you ever wanna talk about anything <2

♟️- you, me, board games.

🍁- im so glad you're my friend

🐚- our souls are linked in ways i cant put to words

#usually I don't do these #but sure

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unknown-ends · 7 hours ago

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hello, luna! i hope ure doing well <3

for the made up fic titles: battle scars & still beating hearts :>

"Papa?" Sylus' breath trembles, taken aback by the familiar babble that is no longer just sounds on its own, but the utterance of proper syllables. Clumsy, yes, but a seamless effort for his little one after they've breathed life for two and a half years. It's been a rough day, where the dragon had been struck by one too many enemies and slaughtered them just as meaninglessly as they intended to do for him. He took flight to the skies, huffing with exhaustion by the time the sun was setting. Frustrated, most of all. He's a brute force that can handle himself but he can only bear so much. Battle scars and all—hearing that soft, naive utter only calls out to the fast pace his heart suddenly races at. Not just his, but he hears the smaller one, too. Tension leaves his shoulders as he watches the toddler stumble then stand again, journeying towards him on her stubby legs. His daughter was his own undoing to a varying extent; suddenly, he's hit with this reminder that she is no longer the frail, wailing newborn he held in his arms. She's growing fast, enough that he can already picture her taking her first flight into the sky. His daughter finally reaches him, to which he takes her into his arms, settling her on his lap. "Papa," she repeats, her soft, tiny hands patting along his chest, close to the glowing red stone on his chest. Sylus smiles, lifting a clawed finger gently to her cheek, "Papa's home."

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unknown-ends · 7 hours ago

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Look, pal, when I say "fanfiction does not have the cultural reach to be able to change social perceptions of controversial topics"

what I mean is "if Game of Thrones could not manage to normalize incest, a handful of shipcest fics on AO3 with 50 kudos each sure aren't going to manage to normalize it!"

And you know that. In your heart you know it.

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unknown-ends · 9 hours ago

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Pastor's Son ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

wc: 2.7k

pairing: zayne x reader

content: religiously oppressed zayne. religious themes, slight corruption (u don't directly cause it), solo masturbation, male masturbation, not too smutty just a lot of zayne struggling, nsfw, possible trigging or offensive themes? don't like, pls scroll

a/n: i had this in my draft and decided to edit it a little and post bc i haven't done that in a while. i actually have TONS of draft so i'll just post those while i get back into writing requests.

Pride. Envy. Greed. Gluttony. Wrath. Sloth. Lust. The seven deadly sins. He knew them by heart. He’d never struggled with any of them—not until you moved in.

At first, you were just the girl next door. The one he saw in passing but never talked to. Then you finally came out to introduce yourself in some shorts and a flirty top that upended his life. And all you had to do was look like that and flash him a pretty smile.

The worst part was that you weren't even trying to affect him like that. No, you just... existed.

Since then, Zayne tried not to look at you or talk to you—tried not to think about you. But nothing good for him was ever easy.

Every night, during prayer, he asked God why.

Why was He was punishing him?

Asked Him what he had done to deserve this—to deserve you.

"You haven't spoken since breakfast."

Zayne glanced up, swallowing thickly before looking back down again.

He was helping his father set up for the 9 a.m. mass, but he was distracted.

"Oh," he murmured.

His father quirked a brow, grabbing the candle Zayne had somehow misplaced and carefully putting it in its rightful spot.

"You've been distracted."

Zayne felt his pulse jump in his throat. "Have I?"

His father paused, his eyes narrowing. "You have," he drawled quietly. "And you know it. What's been on your mind?"

You.

You've been on his mind. Despite all his efforts to keep you out, you always found your way back in.

Zayne cleared his throat, turning his back so his dad wouldn't see the blush kissing the tips of his ears. "I've..—"

He paused, uselessly cleaning the gold chalice. The one that he'd already cleaned earlier.

"I've been.. struggling," Zayne admitted, his voice strained, like he had to force the words out.

"With what?"

His heart lurched in his throat.

Zayne was trained to be honest—taught that lying was morally wrong. But how was he supposed to tell his father, the head of the church, that he thought about you in ways no one should think about their neighbor?

"I've.." He swallowed hard. "I've been losing myself."

He didn't need to say anything else. His father stepped forward, turned Zayne around, and gripped his shoulder tight. "Confess."

Zayne tensed up. "Now?"

His father nodded. "It won't be an hour until anyone shows up. Come."

Zayne couldn't even protest before his dad was guiding him toward the confessionals, his father's grip on his shoulder tight.

And Zayne let himself get dragged away, his heart pounding in his ears and you—your smile, your laugh, your eyes, the way the strap of your shirt barely clung to your shoulder that first time he met you—flashing through his mind.

"Are you sure?" Zayne tried. "I can wait."

"No need."

Then he was in the dim booth, eyes glued to the thin wall separating him and the very man who raised him to be right.

Not... this.

Zayne glanced around, his throat suddenly too tight.

He'd been here a thousand times. Confessing was never an issue. But that was before you.

Now, the walls felt smaller—the darkness felt sharper. Suffocating.

"Dad—" he winced before correcting himself, "Father. We don't—"

"What's been troubling you?"

It was no use.

Zayne sighed, tilting his head down. He thought about lying. Just for a second. It was a fleeting thought, but one that made his stomach curl.

Because no. Zayne didn't lie.

He wasn't built for it.

Slowly, he opened his mouth, the words stuck in his throat for a second before he finally managed to speak.

"I.. I've been struggling with impure thoughts," he admitted, his voice rough. "I know it's wrong, but they won't stop."

Guilt curled around his throat and squeezed tight.

His dad gave a contemplative hum, the sound making Zayne's skin prickle. Judgment? Disappointment? Anger? He could never tell.

"You're not the first man to be tested," his father finally said. "Struggle is natural. But giving in is a choice."

Zayne inhaled shakily.

The reminder hit him like a punch to the gut. It was a sick reminder: whatever he did, whatever thought he let in, whatever sin he committed was his fault.

Always.

Not God's. Not yours. His.

"Distance yourself from temptation, son."

Zayne's jaw clenched, his hands squeezing together painfully.

It was hard to distance himself when you lived right next door. When you smiled at him every morning on his way out with his father. When sometimes before bed, you glanced out your window and waved a little goodbye before shutting your blinds.

"Do 5 Our Father's and 2 Hail Mary's."

"Yes, Father."

For a while, Zayne was convinced he wasn't worth saving. He did all the prayer in the world—kneeled at his bed every night, whispering mantras and hoping it would be enough to keep his own deluded mind at bay.

Of course, it never was.

He kept thinking about you.

Kept thinking about your pretty smile. About your contagious laugh. About your soft, curious eyes.

And God help him, the things all those sweet details did it to him—

It made him sick.

So, fine. He couldn't stop thinking about you, but the least he could was avoid you—physically, anyway. Then maybe—just maybe—he was worth saving.

He woke up earlier to leave the house, claiming he just needed a morning walk, that he would meet his father at the church when really he was avoiding you.

Every time, before leaving the house Zayne made sure to check you weren't outside. It didn't matter what he was doing. It could be something mundane—checking the mail, plucking the weeds, cleaning the car—but he had to make sure he wouldn't run into you.

For a while, it worked.

Until you showed up at church.

His only safe space.

The only place with enough pressure to drown everything else out—his desire, his greed, his selfishness.

You'd shown up in a white sundress and a small little necklace. You looked nervous, shy even, like you weren't sure you were allowed in.

Your eyes flicked around as you stepped in, following your mother through the pew to take your seat in the far right corner.

You looked so... pure. And yet, the thoughts you conjured up were anything but.

Zayne swallowed hard, sweat beading at the corner of his brow as he watched you from his spot on the one of the chairs lining the sanctuary, hands folded tightly in his lap.

What were you even doing here? You never came to mass.

His hand drifted to the cross around his neck, his thumb rubbing over it soothingly. Maybe that would save him. Maybe that would ease the slow burn in his pants.

Zayne was clumsy that mass. He stuttered during the gospel readings. His sweat made his robe cling uncomfortably to his skin. And his eyes kept finding you in the crowd before they nervously darted away.

But he got through it. All that was left was to stand outside at the doors and give you a polite handshake on your way out. At least he thought that was it.

He didn't expect you to linger. Didn't expect you to stand around with your hands behind your back like some nervous little girl. Were you nervous?

For a second, Zayne let himself believe you were waiting for him, but he put two and two together when he realized your mom still hadn't stepped out.

So he stood there, hands held tightly in front of him, hoping his rigid posture would be enough to scare you away.

But you came up to him anyway, a shy little smile playing at your lips. Or maybe he was just imagining your timid approach.

"Hey."

Zayne tensed. "Hey."

You brought your hands in front of you now, messing with your dress, your face pulling into a tiny frown, like maybe you didn't like the way the fabric felt.

It was a shame.

It looked good on you.

Made you look so—

His heart nearly jumped out of his throat.

What was he seriously doing this? Brazenly making comments to himself about the way you looked? Right outside of church? Just a few feet away from his father?

"I haven't seen you around that much."

Zayne tensed again, blinking. You almost sounded... disappointed?—

No. No.

It was all in his head.

".. I've been busy," he answered, his voice clipped. Meaner than he meant it.

"With my duties and father, I just—I have a lot on my plate," he tried correcting, his hands suddenly clammy.

"I'm not avoiding you, if that's what you think."

Liar.

Liar, liar, liar.

For a second, it almost seemed like you didn't believe him. But then your shoulders sagged and your lips curled in a soft smile.

"Oh, okay," you breathed out.

Zayne jaw clenched.

Oh, okay.

Like his answer was something you were relieved about.

"I thought I made a really bad first impression."

So it wasn't in his head? You actually what he thought? He almost couldn't fathom it. You didn't know him. Not really. Not anything outside a few idle conversations.

"No," he quickly said. "Not at all."

He couldn't help the way his eyes darted over your frame. Quick. Yet undeniably appreciative.

He mentally winced before tearing his eyes away.

Why couldn't he stop?

Before he could say anything else, your mother came finally came out. She said something, but he wasn't listening. He only heard when you'd offered him a small "bye."

Zayne watched, every muscle in his body pulled taut from nerves. He couldn't tell whether he wanted to keep watching or turn around and tell God every sickening little thing he was thinking.

"Zayne."

Startled, he stepped back.

"Father, I was just—" Almost like he couldn't help it, his eyes darted back to you. "I was just saying goodbye."

His father followed his gaze, his eyes narrowing a fraction. "Mm."

Zayne's skin prickled. What was his father thinking? Did he know?—that you were the source of his torment? That you were the temptation his father told him to distance himself from?

"Come," he finally said. "We have to get ready for the next mass."

Zayne swallowed thickly, nodding and following him back into the church.

It was official. You'd tainted him. Etched yourself into every part of his brain like you had every right to be there.

"Careful with girls like that."

His heart lurched. He didn't dare look at him. Didn't dare risking a glance at the slight quirk of his father's lips that told him he knew more than he let on.

"..Yes, father," he breathed.

Zayne sat at his desk, bible open, fingers tapping impatiently against the sacred pages, and the moonlight filtering in through his slightly cracked blinds.

He should've been focused. Should've been completely devoted—the way he always was.

But he wasn't.

No.

The Word was right in front of him and all he could think about was you. About what you said, about the pretty flutter of your eyelashes, about the sundress that suited you a little too well.

Zayne huffed, bringing his hand up to his face to rub his temple. You shouldn't affect him so much. You were just—

You were just someone who recently moved in.

Zayne let out another air of frustration, heat pooling low in his gut. It wasn't a feeling he was familiar with.

Whatever this was—he wasn't—

He winced.

Why was he trying to pretend he didn't know what this was? He knew this feeling. Not well, but he knew it.

And he hated that he felt it now of all times.

Every sinful little thought and trait was supposed to have been drilled out of him and replaced with scripture and prayer.

But you ruined him.

Zayne dropped his hands and hunched forward, his elbows digging painfully into the wood.

His pants grew unbearably tight, the feeling making him shift uncomfortably.

Wrong. So, so wrong, but so hard to ignore.

"Not now.." Zayne muttered to himself, as if his voice alone might expel whatever he was thinking of doing. He took a shaky inhale and tried to go back to reading again.

Tried to.

But he couldn't get past the first line. Could't focus because you were still there—in his mind, smiling, laughing, blinking up at him with that sweet—

His brows knitted with irritation, a low groan spilling past his lips.

It was official. You vexed him.

He needed to get rid of this.

Zayne glanced down at his lap, then toward his door.

Slowly, he slid his hand under the desk.

It was just to focus.

He hesitated, fingers twitching as he tried to reconcile with himself. But he couldn't. He pressed his palm against the strain in his pants and nearly jolted.

It was just... to focus.

His touch was unfamiliar. Warm, and soft, but good.

Zayne touched himself once when he was 14.

His father talked about self-gratification the next mass. It wasn't a coincidence. His dad knew. Probably found the evidence.

Zayne never did that again.

If his dad found him like this now—hunched over the desk, his free hand steadying himself on the desk while he used his other hand to rub himself through his pants—

He shuddered, trying to will the image out of his head.

He imagined you instead. The thought came so sudden, so unbidden, he nearly stopped. But he didn't. He rubbed faster, letting out a shuddered groan when his hand rubbed over a particularly sensitive spot.

Zayne's hand moved clumsily. Unsure. But he didn't stop.

Because this was just for him to focus.

Nothing else.

Zayne tentatively wrapped his hand around himself through his clothes, the squeeze pulling another groan from his throat. His breath came out in short huffs now, brows pinching in concentration.

What would you feel like?

If you were here, doing this?

Would you touch him like this? Would you go faster? Slower? Would you be nervous? Ask him if you were doing it right? Make him feel better about the fact that he's only done this once?

Zayne let out a shuddered gasp, his hips greedily bucking into his hand.

What was he doing?

He didn't seriously imagine you—

But shit. It made this feel so much better.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, even as his hand moved faster. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

He bit his lip, the heat in his stomach coiling unbearably tight. "I'm... so—God—I'm sorry..."

Zayne was so close. He was right there. Just a bit more and he'd spill himself in his pants. He could taste blood, but there was only one thing on his mind.

So close. So close, so cl—

"Zayne?"

Zayne wrenched his hand away like he’d been burned, scrambling to compose himself, pretending to be reading when he heard the soft click of the door.

His breathing came in uneven spurts, chest rising and falling too quickly as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Don’t you knock?” he murmured, the words instantly making dread crawl underneath his skin.

He heard it the minute he said it. The annoyance. The attitude.

His father's brows knit together. "Zayne."

A beat of silence.

"Watch yourself."

He swallowed hard. "Sorry.. I'm.. just tired."

His father stared for a moment before speaking again.

"I was just checking on you. Reading is going well?"

Zayne hesitated, his mouth opening, then closing again. Because no, reading was not going well. He'd been masturbating right in front of the bible like it was just some accessory to his lust.

It was sickening.

"Yes. Reading is going well."

"Good." His dad squinted, and for a horrifying second, Zayne thought he'd been caught. Then—

"Your lip is bleeding."

Relief flooded his chest as he moved his fingers to his lips, swiping away the blood like he didn't know it was there. "Oh."

It stung. But maybe that's what he deserved for pleasuring himself and then lying about it. "I didn't notice it."

"Don't get it on the bible."

Zayne paused, his voice low as he responded. "Okay."

"And don't forget your prayer when you're done."

With that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, Zayne was frozen, his pulse still pounding wildly in his ears.

Then finally, he sighed, leaning back in his chair and shifting his hips uncomfortably. He was still aching. Still straining uncomfortably against his pants.

He wanted to reach down again. Touch himself properly this time, under the boxers, skin to skin, but guilt clogged his throat. Made it hard to move his hand anywhere near his groin again.

With a frustrated huff, Zayne snapped the bible close and leaned over his desk again.

Filthy.

Disgusting.

Ugly.

He'd become the very thing he'd been trained to avoid.

tags: @exe-toby @seungkwansflower @floatinginaer @halfawakeblobbu @heartyluv @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @walrusbreath @sylvieisoffline @awquaz @purpleamethyst25 @pinksaiyans @beaconsxd @haleaf @politefawn @colonelpantysniffer @villainessobsessed @lioria @inlovewithsylus @tired7o7

@justwinginglife @itsmysmut @bitewiththis @littleboomerang @aenishas @inzayneforaj @opalesquegirl @sudenuryg @lamogliedizayne @rurushow @viviiswrr-d @rina-lidou @puppytruther @animegamerfox @00haru00 @thelittlebutton

@lilacsandhysteria @syncaleb @meulilac @horanghaeegr @astheskycries @perfect4taehyung @rychltruly @sylusqt @suffyrn @emowitchwithatwist @didudjjd @suguru-getos @joopg00p @kithyyy @silly-gooper @mcdepressed290

@lelilynn @1r2u3b4y5

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unknown-ends · 9 hours ago

Note

loveanddeephistory on main- here's some potential titles that I hope spark some fluff! Feel free to pick one of them I'm just throwing a handful at the wall to see what sticks. Down by the Garden, Carousel, Brighter Days Come

Down by the Garden

summary: you're a feisty little thing, trying to rebuild your garden piece by piece.

At some point during your gardening journey, you realized you were fighting a game of diminishing returns.

Each spring was a race to fill trays with seeds asking for warmth. Each summer was a war declared by moths, caterpillars and rodents who feasted on your hard-earned bounty. Each fall became a rapid descent to madness as storms whipped through your second round of seedlings and the dwindling sunlight slowed flowers from setting fruit. And winter?

Winter was cruel.

Cold, barren, torrential and decrepit of the usual kindness that came with early sunrises and sunsets.

You were especially discouraged this year, watching as fuzzy tomato leaves turned into sun-burnt crisps and sunflowers snapped in two without supports. Once bright waving hands greeting you, now lifeless forms.

The garden never felt so unforgiving.

Maybe it’s time to retire the shovel and the spade.

…

You don’t know what compelled you to step into the nursery.

Perhaps it was habit, drawing moth to a flame. Perhaps it was a pair of toothy grins greeting you near the wind chimes, praising your musical taste. Perhaps it was the crow that hopped curiously onto your hand, parroting your greeting as you offered a handful of sunflower seeds from your pocket.

But what you do know as you enter lush greenery and bask in sunlit domes is that this feels a lot like hope.

…

They have Monstera here?

You crouch next to the bushy plant, marveling at its fenestration. A giggle escapes when you trace its shiny leaves, stifling the urge to coo when it bounces back. It’s rare for you to find such a specimen—you glance at its price tag—and one so affordable, too!

And even the variegated versions?

You could barely contain your excitement.

Maybe the promise of growth didn’t have to end with the outdoors. Maybe you could bring the plants to you.

…

You’re a peculiar little mouse.

You’re the first to take Kieran’s advice seriously, asking about watering needs and maturation dates while others would ignore his careful instruction. You’re the first to laugh at Luke’s repetitive prank of scaring kids into thinking watermelon seeds sprout in their stomachs. You’re the first to feed Mephisto instead of shooing him away, offering his chosen treat: sunflower seeds. It’s a marvel really, how you effortlessly integrate yourself in their care.

Sylus hides a little smile when he finds you by the Monstera—his personal favorite.

They’re a particular genus of plants.

Fast growers (unlike you, who barely clears half its indoor height), preferring dappled light (just like him, who prefers the distance of sun instead of the direct exposure of it), thriving in warm and humid environments (he’ll never admit, but he built the sun room less for the plants and more for himself), and most importantly he prizes his daily ritual of—

Wait, what are you doing?

His eyes narrow into hypercritical slits, watching as you stroke his most expensive species. White, speckled, he knew the Monstera albo would attract the most customers, but no one dared to touch it until you (how could you not see the obvious signage that stated “do not touch” in bright red letters?). Eyebrow twitching, he’s already striding over with his homemade cleaning solution and a cloth to wipe away your grimy little fingerprints.

Oh no you don’t, not on his watch.

…

The twins know Sylus to be a man with paramount patience.

He rarely raises his voice, even with the most crotchety of customers (his withering stare is enough to send them on their way). He shows little interest in those who have no desire to purchase his wares, brushing aside gifts and fake peals of laughter (he leaves the cash registers to the twins for this very reason: to avoid his rabid fans). In fact, they’ve never seen him spend more than a minute talking to a stranger unless Sylus is pulled in for managerial support.

So, imagine their surprise when you are the first to ignite his frustration and he is the first to initiate conversation.

Luke jabs his elbow into Kieran’s side.

“Ow, what was that—”

They both guffaw as you steal away his spray bottle and spray him instead of his beloved Monstera.

“Oh my god, she’s no little mouse—”

“She’s a lion.”

…

“—And that’s how mama and papa met before you were born.”

Your daughter squeals as you close the scrapbook. She claps her hands under the blanket you draw over her, yawning as you land a kiss on her forehead. On her bedside table lies is a picture frame with the three of you. Wide eyed, bushy-tailed, grinning toothily and holding up her first tiny pot of Monstera.

“Again, beloved?”

Sylus smiles fondly in the doorway, brushing away tendrils of hair from your face.

You shrug and nuzzle into his palm, “It is her favorite bedtime story.”

“Hmmm, how are you going to explain to her our first date? Or when she asks about how she was born?”

He smirks at the way your face scrunches in annoyance.

”Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m still cringing at the twins interrupting all our firsts.”

“Well, clearly something worked.”

You scoff and squish his cheeks, “Only because I dragged you on a weekend getaway and jumped your old bones since you were being too considerate of me.”

And in the quiet of the night, he guides your hand down by the garden. Still squabbling like young children, still laughing about misunderstandings, still finding ways to grow together, still discovering parts of each other—

Once seeds, once leaves, once branches,

Now trees.

Thank you for reading! （｡>‿‿<｡）

more sylus fics here

tag list: @comatosebunny09 @thechaoticarchivist @abyssyby @peascrabbles @unknown-ends

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unknown-ends · 10 hours ago

Text

My husband came home in 20 pulls

#such a good boy for me #unknown-thoughts #love and deepspace #zayne

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unknown-ends · 13 hours ago

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hi hi emmy luv! hope ure well!

made up fic title: chicken scratches & tired glances :>

“Sweetie, shouldn’t you be asleep by now?”

The clickity-clack of your keyboard refuses to stop. Each word in front of you blurs into a sea of letters and numbers. The entire document might as well be chicken scratch because you can’t even remember what you wrote minutes ago. But if you could just complete one more page, you could finally—

Your heart plummets to the floor when the screen turns black.

Slowly, you feather your fingers around the charging port.

Your laptop is plugged in, still warm from use.

You hold and press the power button, wait one, two beats—nothing.

And if the silence could scream back at you, it would.

Did you save the report? It’s not a blackout, the lights are on, is Nero still in the office, maybe Jenna can grant an exten—

A warm hand covers your eyes, another swathing down from your temple to your chin, “Breathe.”

You shiver once, twice, then your lungs are opening like the first wake of a butterfly’s wings after winter.

The lights dim to a muted yellow, and before you can remove his hand, you’re extricated from the living room table, a whine escaping as the chair creaks from the lack of weight, “Sylus—”

“The answer is no.”

Inside the bathroom, he props you on the counter, already pulling out your usual skincare routine. “But—”

“I’ll fix it.”

You groan against his shoulder, “That’s not the issue.”

He snorts, “Fine, I’ll help you write it.”

“You can’t that information is—”

The bath is running now, drowning out your protests, “—Confidential, yes, I know.”

You huff, pressing the base of your palms to your eyelids.

“Still too bright?”

Guiltily, you slowly nod. The pangs have slowed but only slightly. Even the sound of his voice is barely tolerable right now. You sigh in relief when humidity tickles your nose and the last glow entering your periphery is from him, rubies softening into deep burgundies.

“Hey,” and he becomes the thrum of a cello, a harp serenading forest fae just for you, “look at me?”

You spare a tired glance at him, smooshing your cheek against his sweater.

“Let me help you.”

You clench you jaw—

“Ah ah ah,” he pushes his thumb against your lower lip, slowly releasing the tension, “don’t do that, it’ll only make your migraine worse.”

An irritated grunt escapes, but this time you relent. The steam fogs the mirror behind you, and currently you’re too boneless to care about him chiding you like a child that refuses to go to bed.

In the morning, you’ll ask Luke and Kieran to cook his favorite breakfast (a skill they have yet to master) and dismiss the chef under the pretense of a family emergency.

But for now, you give into his whims. Sinking into the bath’s sudsy embrace, relishing gentle hands rubbing shampoo into your scalp and the breath he continues to pass from him to you.

Thank you.

And when the last drop trickles down the drain and silk envelops you, you press a kiss over his heart.

I love you.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Thank you for reading! （｡>‿‿<｡） more sylus fics here

a/n: i'm doing better love :3 it's so weird having a three day weekend, but i'm definitely making the most of it! Thanks for sending this in, @abyssyby ❤️

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unknown-ends · 13 hours ago

Text

[fic, chapter 1] Terms of Agreement

Terms of Agreement

To keep you safe from your ex-fiancé, your brother hires a bodyguard. Said bodyguard is also part-timing as your fake boyfriend.

Chapter 1 | Masterlist of chapters

word count: 6,809

chapter tags: surprise bodyguard gift, fake lovers extra gig, annoying big brother who may or may not be matchmaking you and xavier, xavier has a fake boyfriend identity, cohabitation (to your dismay), kitchen disaster (to your dismay), first chapter and xavier's already meeting a parent, acting that isn't convincing (to your dismay)

summary: Against your will, you now have a bodyguard/fake boyfriend under your care. Xavier AKA Sim Sunghoon, you think, is a strange man.

He arrives at your department office like sunrise: quiet in his footsteps, the creak of the opening door unnoticeable under the background hum of teacher-student consultation sessions. The soles of his shoes click softly on the tiled floor, and as he passes by other faculty cubicles, people pause, heads crane, tailing his path with their stunned gazes.

Next to your desk he stops, and what seems like a halo of light pierces the periphery of your vision. You blink rapidly at the essay you’re grading, concentration disrupted, and you lift your head to find a young man standing next to you. Tall and babyfaced, the hint of a smile peeking at the corners of his lips. Platinum hair and blue eyes that remind you of a clear, unfettered sky. He’s not one of your students; you remember all their faces and their names. Someone with features like his has never been enrolled in any of your classes.

You put aside the essay, and acknowledge him politely.

“May I help you?”

“Hi,” he says. His voice reminds you of a calm river, fluid and steady. And then he hands you an envelope.

It’s becoming apparent that this is your elder brother’s doing.

He has sent the young man to you, after learning of your recent scare with your ex-fiancé.

Xavier, the letter the man has given you says. Rarely you get to meet your elder brother these days, ever since you announced to your family all those years ago that you possessed zero interest in inheriting one of your family companies, dumping your arranged-marriage partner in the process. That had been an interesting night: your father apoplectic from your sheer audacity, your elder brother doing his best to calm him down, and your mother elegantly patting her lips with a napkin and mirthfully offering you desserts. Your father cast you away afterwards, the red still blotching his skin, but your mother pulled you aside and pressed into your palm a key to an apartment just in case something exactly like this would happen.

In the letter your brother wrote: His name is Xavier. I hired him to be your bodyguard, because I know you won’t ever think to ask Father for help. It’s been years since your engagement was dissolved, but that bastard your ex-fiancé still can’t let it go. If you want, I also instructed Xavier to pretend to be your lover, so the bastard your ex-fiancé would finally think there’s zero chance you and he will get back together again. Xavier will explain the rest. Also, clear your schedule first weekend next month, we’ll fly to Jeju Island. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other and I’ve been missing your cute rebellious scowl.

The letter joins the stack of papers on your desk, atop the manuscript draft you wrote longhand and the student essays you’re still not finished reading. The man—Xavier—waits with a patient tilt of head, an unassuming air about him. It doesn’t stop the curious glances of your colleagues and the students in the office, however.

The hinted smile finally surfaces when he meets your blank gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, “but what the actual fuck?”

Seojun, despite adopting the countenance of a cold and distant man, has his fair share of brotherly moments. Nonetheless, you don’t understand your elder brother’s motivations for hiring a bodyguard to protect you. While true—your ex-fiancé had been consistently a thorn in your side—you believe you had handled the matter just fine on your own, with some help from your friends. He had, after all, disappeared from your life for a while now. The most recent encounter of him was just a fluke; you had been unlucky enough to encounter him after a couple of peaceful years. Unlucky because he was drunk and you were alone. But your ex-fiancé is ultimately pomp and noise, an (admittedly and begrudgingly hot) annoyance in your life. His actions should not have merited your brother’s meddling, much less the employment of a security detail.

This is why you hadn’t told your family in the first place.

“What in the world were you thinking?!” you scream into your phone once your brother’s face coalesces on the screen. On the rooftop of the college building, the wind bites into your skin, sneaking under your hair, cooling your nape. The area is empty, which is a good news, because it affords you to speak with your brother unfiltered.

Seojun raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. He’s wearing a dark suit, which usually means that he’s out of his office negotiating with some big clients. In the background, the sleek black of his car interior frames the rapidly moving scenery. “I don’t appreciate how that’s your first words to me after not keeping in touch for five months.”

“Oh, get over it!” A little bit to your left is a small garden with an archway, twined with flowers. It’s a popular spot for students who want to do a photoshoot for myriad reasons. Next to the archway is a park bench, and you grip its backrest as you continue to scream at your brother. “You don’t talk to me for five months and then you send me a man. A man who would tail me wherever I go! Again: what in the world were you thinking?!”

There’s a murmur off-screen, and Seojun is focused on that for a few seconds. He frowns, and returns to you. “I don’t see Xavier behind you.”

You turn your camera towards Xavier, who’s stationed himself several paces away, closer to the rooftop door. He’s not dressed in a suit—just a turtleneck and a casual jacket. He can pass off as a college student if he wanted, and you suppose blending in is a better strategy than outright announcing that he’s a bodyguard, especially when the places that you frequent are campus grounds. That, however, doesn’t comfort you, considering that it’s the second part of your brother’s order that’s freaking you out.

Xavier’s head lifts and sees your phone and the person on the screen. He gives a polite nod and goes back to—idling? Sleeping? You squint your eyes to get a better look.

“Is he slacking off while on duty?”

Seojun is quick to defend the young man—a surprising twist coming from him. “Xavier is very skilled at his job. He can definitely protect you from all kinds of threats, most especially Han Junghwa.”

At the name a twinge flashes in your chest. The memory of his incensed face, the raised fist, the shouting, surfaces. You beat it down with a bite of lip and a measured exhale.

To your dismay, Seojun notices, and he softens.

“I’m hurt that you didn’t tell me.”

You swallow, feeling displaced by that statement. “I’m fine. He didn’t succeed in hurting me.”

But it also caught you off-guard. You’ve known Han Junghwa as a loud man, both in voice and in appearance. Each clothing and movement signifies an impenetrable layer of braggadocio that you think it’s the only composition of his personality. He’s superficial, but never in your years of being together with him you expected him to inflict serious violence.

“Still.” And you jump at the vehemence of your brother's tone. Seojun rarely displays his genuine feelings towards his family, so seeing him like this right now is a testament that he still cares about you deeply despite your father’s intent on denying your existence. Warmth sweeps away the burgeoning anxiety that takes root in your chest made by the unpleasant memory. “If I were just there—he would have ended up in a hospital.”

The thought of prim and proper Seojun participating in a brawl elicits a snort of laughter. “If you wanted to end up in jail, I guess.”

“Please. Nothing that our lawyers couldn’t handle.”

The absurd solemnity with which your brother has said it, coupled with the utter dissonance from the image you have of him—you can’t help it: a bubbling giggle bursts out of you. Like a firecracker in its explosive abruptness, that Xavier jerks from where he stands, whirling in your direction, eyes visibly wide even from this distance.

“By the way,” Seojun continues, after the last cluster of giggle leaves you, “has Xavier already explained everything to you?”

Has Xavier explained everything to you? The question reels you back to the reason of your call in the first place. Before your ascent to the rooftop Xavier had been very thorough in explaining the details of Seojun’s orders. His tone so matter-of-fact, as if reciting from memory all the items of a contract. His expression gave nothing away—not even a twitch of a frown. It didn’t help that he discussed the terms in your shared office, where your co-faculty and a few students present had tried and failed at pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Oppa,” and if he hears the exasperation bleeding into your voice, you don’t care, “this is totally unnecessary.”

“I beg to differ. What if the bastard grows bolder? Remember why you were engaged with him in the first place.”

Like other wealthy families, the engagement had been about business, strengthening ties with another conglomerate group for corporate interests and longevity. Han Junghwa is the youngest of the family, the pretty yet frivolous one, so his parents had decided long ago that his use is of the marital kind. Your family’s companies have been in operations for more than half a century, name already established and trusted by the public. Losing ties with your family is detrimental to Han Junghwa’s family interest, so in a way you understand your ex-fiancé’s desperate attempts to return to your former relationship status.

But that’s his problem, not yours. You have your own dreams and goals, and you’re perfectly happy with where you are right now.

“I know self-defense, in case you forgot it.”

“What if he brought a weapon next time?”

Your brother has a point, and that thought occasionally worms its way into your mind. But still—

“And, oppa, seriously—fake lover? What the hell is that?”

At that, amusement curls around Seojun, and you’re gearing up to call him out on it, when he says, “It’s a brilliant plan if I do say so myself.”

“Uh, no?!”

“Did he also mention the identity he’s adopting while he’s pretending as your lover?”

“Did you come up with that—backstory and all?”

The smug and knowing sheen of his expression answers your question.

“Be honest: are you really worried about me or are you just planning to steal my profession?”

“It’s the perfect excuse for him to be with you in any situation,” he prevaricates. “Many in our circles already know that Father cut you off from our accounts, so they’d suspect if you have a security detail with you. This way, Xavier gets to do his job without constant suspicion.”

Silence punctuates the pensive pause, a hand suddenly migrating to his mouth. As if realizing something that should have been obvious from the start, he asks you, urgent:

“Don’t tell me he’s not your type?”

You could have chucked your phone off the building. From the way the heat is gathering around your cheeks, you know that you’re blushing. This age, and you’re blushing.

But, like a magnet exerting its pull, you cast a glance at Xavier, who’s still watching you from afar. He waves a casual hand at your attention, and you feel your cheeks getting hotter.

“He’s a little airheaded for my taste,” you find yourself saying, which is not exactly what you want to relay to your elder brother, who has to be banned from asking you about your romantic preferences. “I like that he’s tall and fit, though.”

“I see, I see.” Seojun is nodding, as if he’s taking your feedback seriously. “Did you get that, Secretary Cha—”

“Wait—Secretary Cha?” You do a double take. “Why is Secretary Cha taking note of my type?!”

The conversation’s derailing quickly, and you don’t know how to salvage it. Seojun has the tendency to take the wheel in all kinds of linguistic exchanges, regardless of the outcome or the people involved; it’s how he succeeds in negotiations—bulldoze your way into getting what you want out of the deal. It’s why, you think cynically, your father has poured all his hopes and expectations on him and not much on you, who prefer something more artistic and less capitalistic.

“We’ve arrived at my office,” says your elder brother, whose background is a familiar wash of concrete-gray of the parking area. “I have to go. I’ll call you when I’m free. And don’t forget: Jeju Island, next month. I’ll pick you up. Goodbye.”

The screen turns black, and you stare at your phone a little longer, numbly cataloguing the conflicting emotions battering you right now. A moment later: footsteps, getting closer.

Xavier’s body heat noticeable on your side. He places a hand on the backrest of the bench, precisely where your hand previously rested.

“Professor,” he says, the syllables of your title like icing on his mouth. Soft. Light.

Sweet.

“Can I start working now?”

As your (fake) boyfriend, his name is Sim Sunghoon, who does odd jobs here and there, and he’s a fan of your books.

“I like your debut novel best. It resonated with me very much,” says Xavier, and, in the study at your home, you’re unsure whether that’s said out of the role he’s playing or he’s truly read your works.

Though you have to make one thing clear. “I haven’t agreed to this fake lovers thing yet.”

“You haven’t?” And he does something with his eyes that endangers the pen you’re currently gripping. For some reason, his eyes call upon the image of puppies soaked in the rain, and that is dangerous to any human being with weakness for cute animals. “But my employer said it’s all good.”

Figures your brother would bulldoze you in this one too.

“Ugh, fine. Fake lover you will be.” You take a deep breath, centering yourself. “What should I call you? Is Sunghoon-ah okay?” You can’t bear calling him something more intimate than that.

“Only when there are people around.” A moment passes, and: “Then should I call you … Noona?”

Noona. When he says it, it's as if he's trying out a new dish. Tentative, but eager to savor all the flavors. The shape of his mouth molding around the syllables, the liquid fluidity of his voice through the euphony of the word.

Frisson sparks down your spine, swift and sudden, like an ambush. Your breath snags, your heart trips. Your back straightens like it's jolted into attention. You try to pass off the reaction as an aborted attempt to shift on your seat. Xavier has an unreadable glint in his eyes, and they haven’t left you even for a second.

Your pen snaps in half.

Xavier boggles. “Do you hate it that much? I’ll just call you ‘professor’, then.”

He reaches out to take the pen from your tight fist. He prises open your fingers one by one, carefully extricating the destroyed item from your ink-drenched hand. A handkerchief replaces the pen, wiped over the blue-black liquid dripping down your palm like blood.

Xavier leans back and tosses the handkerchief to the bin. “Wash your hands. It’ll be hard to remove the ink if you let it be for longer.”

You stand—not because of his instruction, but because, based on your experience, it truly is difficult to remove this particular brand on your skin once it dries.

As you head towards the bathroom you click your tongue and say, “Rather than a bodyguard, you’re more like a sitter.”

Xavier’s already outside of your vision, but you can hear the smile as he answers, “Rather than a sitter, I’d say it’s more like a boyfriend, yes?”

The question of work hours catapults into the forefront when dusk bleeds into the slats of your windows, violet slivers jumping out against the harsh, white lights of your apartment. After coming home from work and hashing out some further details about your (fake!) relationship, Xavier plops down on your living room couch and nods off, leaving you flummoxed at the progression of events.

“Wait, no, Xavier.” Repeated taps on the shoulder don’t stir him awake. Even a shake doesn’t penetrate the depth of his slumber. “Wake up, Xavier. We’re not finished talking. Xavier. Xavier!”

Nothing.

You try his other name. “Sim Sunghoon ssi. Sim Sunghoon ssi. Wake up, you’re not sleeping in my house.”

Still nothing.

“Sunghoon-ah?”

This is hopeless. A frustrated sigh wheezes out of you, and, giving up, you let him be. You have to wonder where your brother found him. Xavier seems to be the sort who only appears normal, but is actually a very, very weird person once you get to know him for more than sixty minutes.

Apparently, with no approval from you, Xavier is sleeping at your house. At least he knew to perch himself on the couch and not, say, your bed. Another sigh.

You return to your study, deciding to continue your personal project before all of this tumbled down and made a splatter at your feet.

It didn’t occur to you during the exposition of the role he’s also adopting for this job; but now that the study is quiet, the hum of the evening filling in the cluttered space of the room, the papers strewn everywhere (that Xavier had to pick up a stack just to get to sit on a chair), you puzzle over the fact that Xavier knows of your other career. The easy answer is, of course, your elder brother told him. Made a dossier of you and handed it to him, but you remember the way Xavier said I like your debut novel best and It resonated with me very much and there’s a lilt to his tone that teases a memory he might have rifled through his mind and plucked out like a thick folder from an archive. It’s possible that he might have indeed read your books. It’s also possible that he might have liked them. But that is too strange a thought that you agonize over it for the rest of the evening, neglecting to continue writing your manuscript draft—and then suddenly you’re awoken to an explosive bang outside the room, the beginnings of smoke filtering through the gaps at the door.

You fly outside, panic seizing your chest, and you’re greeted with the bizarre vision of a singed Xavier in your old, ratty apron, unidentifiable blobs clinging all over the upper half of him, and the kitchen looking like the aftermath of a chemistry experiment gone wrong.

The deer-in-headlights expression on him is wiped away at the sight of your presence, and Xavier does something with his eyes again (you’re beginning to suspect that it’s a tactic of his whenever he wants something to go his way or whenever he wants to avoid the consequences of his actions) and says, after an awkward pause, “I wanted to cook you breakfast. Good morning?”

The stove chooses that very moment to gurgle crackling noises and regurgitate strange little fireballs, missing Xavier’s sleeve by an inch. Then the appliance suddenly—outrageously—caves in itself.

It takes a whole minute of staring at the poor remains of the stove before you point a trembling finger at Xavier, and then to the front door of your apartment, and then roar, “OUT.”

You’ve only been to Jeju Island twice: first when you were six and your mother took you with her for work. You don’t remember much of it anymore, but you do remember the warmth of the sun and the warmth of her hand as she held you along her walk through the sea of people who greeted and spoke to her with candied tone. Some of those people extended their enthusiastic attention to you, and you clung to your mother’s skirt despite the strangers’ kind tones.

The second was before your college graduation—a weekend vacation organized by you and your friends. It’s one of the most adventurous weekends of your life. The four of you—your best friends who you still meet with at least once per season—tasted and sampled all that you could in those 48 hours: the Olle trails that you hadn't even finished because Harin kept taking pictures of every flower, graffiti, and hot man she passed by; the waterfalls that you didn't even want to approach, content to stare at it from a distance, but Youngmi tugged your arm and pushed you to the edge, the rush of water vibrating deep into your bones, like a conversation made with your soul; Loveland—your favorite—of which Jiyoo tried to copy the statues’ poses and positions, to other spectators’ scandalized fascination—

And, of course, the sunset from the view of the volcanic crater.

Hands holding each other; it's like peace had settled over you all like a blanket during a cold evening. Soft and comforting, and this feeling lingered in you until you flew back to Seoul, where you all held each other for several minutes, tears threatening to pour, before each of you went back home and prepared for your graduation ceremony.

Now, your brother is dragging you to Olle Trail Route 2, which is uncharacteristic for him, but you peg it to be his outlet for his work-related stress. You’re in the middle of walking, Xavier trailing both of you several paces behind. Xavier appears to be distracted during the walk and always stops for a brief moment whenever a sparrow hovers around him. Seojun is intensely quiet next to you, glaring at the pathway as if he has a personal grievance against it.

So you say, “So you drag me all the way here at Jeju Island just to walk and not—as I assumed—talk.”

“We’re also here to admire the scenery.”

“Which I can do from the comfort of my home, thanks to the internet.”

Seojun’s expression is pained, as if pitying your lack of aspiration for adventure, which—that’s not quite true. You like excitement and adventure as much as the next person, but currently your schedule cannot afford any leeway for unnecessary engagements. This weekend getaway is an outlier, courtesy of your bulldozing elder brother. Not that you’re not thankful about it or anything. Jeju Island is beautiful. Everywhere you look there’s something to admire. Like a picturesque painting by the artist Ki Wook, the colors of the island coalesce into a harmonious glow of serenity. Just by standing there, breathing in the clean air, the cool winds flicking at your hair, your loose clothes—it tides away your worries and your stress, and you feel like you’re born again, refreshed.

“Anyway,” you continue. “How long will Xavier guard me?”

“That’s a good question.” There’s a flicker of surprise in your brother’s face, as if he, too, hadn’t thought that far. “I was thinking until Han Junghwa’s arrested.”

You stop walking. In disbelief you blurt out, “So forever? Until I die?”

At the last word, you hear Xavier jogging to catch up.

Seojun waves a hand and Xavier slows down again.

You watch the exchange, your suspicion mounting. “Are you setting something up? Frame Han Junghwa?”

“Nothing like that, no.” Seojun gestures for you to resume walking, and you obey. The rust-colored trail leads you to the waters, and in the distance Sunrise Peak juts out at the horizon, foregrounded by nearby buildings. “I have a feeling that Han Junghwa will eventually do something drastic, and that’s what I’m actually preparing for. It might lead to his arrest, it might not. But the most important thing is your safety.”

“Where did you find him anyway? I’ve been wondering about that.”

Oddly enough, that gets a chuckle from him. “I’m not in a position to divulge that information.”

“An NDA? All the more to be suspicious.”

Seojun’s smile, when it’s turned in your direction, is amused, crooked in a way that hints of boyishness in his youth. You remember when he had been in high school, always in impeccably ironed clothes, his expression always severe during family dinners. But there had been glimpses of his unfettered grins when you wandered into his classroom, shyly asking for him so he could lend you his phone to call Mother because yours drained and you forgot to bring your charger.

Seojun is, you admit with gritted teeth, good-looking, taking after your mother. Foxy, in a way, too.

“There’s nothing illegal about it. It’s just for security reasons.”

“Whatever you say.”

“By the way.” The tone of his voice shifts, an indicator of subject change and a more important one, for that matter. “Mother asked me about you. You still haven’t told them?”

In the whirlwind of events that followed your ex-fiancé’s near-drunken assault, the thought to tell your parents—well, only your mother—slipped your mind. And then Xavier happened. Xavier has a knack for narrowing your attention, focusing only on him. Mostly because he’s a danger to your appliances, particularly in the kitchen. After that breakfast fiasco Xavier had repeatedly apologized and offered to replace all the things he destroyed, but insisted that he had to contribute to the housework because part of his contract is to stay with you 24/7, a detail that your brother had conveniently forgotten to mention and that you are not entirely happy with.

(Regarding Xavier’s idea of recompense, you rejected it, declaring that he’s “never to be trusted with kitchen appliances in any way, shape, or form. I’ll replace them myself. Though … are you good with cleaning or laundry?”)

“I asked Mom to meet with me next week for something house-related. I’ll tell her then. And why would I tell Dad? I bet he’d even side with the asshole.” With his priorities, your father would definitely sympathize with Han Junghwa and chastise you for spurning your ex-fiancé. That is a scenario you definitely don’t want happening in reality.

“I’m still trying to convince Father, you know.”

“Why would you? Don’t bother; he’s a lost cause.”

Seojun has no counter to that.

“In any case, if I’d tell our parents, I’d tell only Mom. I’d rather talk to the ones who actually bother checking up on me every now and then.”

Behind you Xavier breaks off from the trail and crosses the road to inspect a mural on a building wall, he a brushstroke of white and gray amidst the splatter of colors. As you return your focus on the road ahead of you, you glimpse a shadow in Seojun’s features, disappearing in the quick turn of his head, hidden from your view. You try to guess what it was—was it pain? Wistfulness? Regret? And for what reason? It’s left no traces when Seojun asks you of your choice of next destination moments later, as if it wasn’t there in the first place.

“Then,” you say, deciding to forget about it altogether, knowing that he’d never indulge you if you asked him about it, “Loveland. I bet you haven’t even been there. You’re going to love it.”

This time, you can identify your brother’s expression, in the way his face contorts in the most unpleasant way. You laugh at his horrified reaction, but he doesn’t scold you for it. Xavier chooses this moment to catch up, and he makes a bemused sound at the sight of you and your brother.

“Xavier!” You whirl towards him, still laughing. “Have you been to Loveland?”

Xavier, in fact, has never been to Loveland. But when the three of you arrive at the place, he reacts in a way that is utterly different from what you’ve expected. Huh.

Lee Bomsori, named with the spring’s sound in mind, has been a pillar in the film industry for decades. Her carved-ivory classic looks paired with a gaze so piercing it’s as if she’s looking into your essence and the threads of your destiny—it’s not surprising that she has appeared in more than a hundred movies not only locally but also internationally. She has a quality of making each role her own, like a wizard who imbues magic upon her character. Almost every character of hers—even the cameos—becomes iconic and enduring because of her magnetic talent.

Lee Bomsori also happens to be your mother, and at present she’s accepting the cappuccino you’ve prepared for her with a grace that trumps even actual royalty.

“Thank you, darling,” she croons. Even the way she speaks has this mellifluous lilt that reminds you of birdsong. “Let’s see if you’ve improved on your coffee-brewing skills.”

“Mom.” You roll your eyes once you’ve escaped her peripheral vision.

You have a peculiar relationship with your mother. Unlike other mother-daughter relationships, which center on familial expectations and traditional roles, you and Lee Bomsori fall more on the wayside. The love is there, for sure, but it manifests in the way she nonchalantly catches you whenever your father makes known of his inexplicable dislike of you, in the way she doesn’t persuade you to lower yourself before your father just to receive his love, in the way she’s prepared for contingencies in case you get in all sorts of trouble.

In the way she’s observing Xavier right now—Xavier, who doesn’t know what to do with a white pomeranian that has imperiously strolled up to him and presented her recently groomed head for him to pet.

“Jjondeugi, don’t bother the man, come here.”

The pomeranian—Jjondeugi—snorts derisively at the lack of response from Xavier, barks once, and bounds over to your mother.

Lee Bomsori is a busy woman. Even in her sixties, it’s not just acting that’s filling her schedule: as a skincare brand ambassador, she also has to attend photoshoots and social events, mostly abroad; as an environmental activist, she attends conferences and speaks before important people from all over the world; as the wife of a tech magnate she also dabbles in a few of the businesses under their purview.

So when you had texted her a week before, there was zero expectation of her replying within five minutes of the sent message. When your phone rang and her name lit on the screen, you swooped for the device, knocking your breath out—to Xavier’s alarm—and swiped to answer.

“But, darling,” she opened with no ceremony, “no need to fret—I’ve already penciled your appointment in long before you texted me.”

And now, in the apartment she gave you after your father declared that he no longer had a daughter (despite your continued use of his surname), she watches Xavier seeking cues from you as she sips her coffee.

“Not bad,” she comments. You don’t know if she’s talking about the coffee or about Xavier.

“Right,” you begin, awkwardly shuffling until you get your bearings. Crossing the sofa where your mother is sitting like an elegantly folded crane, you slide your hand underneath Xavier’s arm and guide him to position yourselves in front of your mother and the family dog. Jjondeugi whines for your attention, and you so want to grab her and carry her around, enjoying her fluffy presence, but you have to get this out of the way first.

Xavier glances at you like he doesn’t know what’s happening. Which is, honestly, better that way.

You pat Xavier’s arm and, to your mother, you announce, “This is Sim Sunghoon. He’s my boyfriend.”

Xavier smiles, rather cutely.

Any fanfare dies after that pronouncement, your mother only continuing to drink her coffee and Jjondeugi lolling her tongue in a persistent attempt to make you surrender. The smile astretched on your face strains, and Xavier’s flattens.

The night before your mother’s visit, you sat Xavier down on the only swivel chair at your study, sandwiched by your chaotic desk on one side and a densely packed bookshelf on the other. “I need you to understand something before we face my mom tomorrow,” was the first thing you said, and Xavier kept his gaze at you the entire time you laid out your strategy of not revealing to your mother the Han Junghwa incident and your brother’s subsequent reaction to it, his expression very solemn but very rapt, like a patient stargazer anticipating a meteor shower. Mother, after careful deliberation, should never know, precisely because she’s your mother and like all mothers who’d give their all for their children, she wouldn’t hesitate to rain hell on Han Junghwa, razing anyone and anything in the immediate vicinity.

You don’t want to escalate things, for your family’s sake.

“Mom?”

Emptying the mug and setting it on the coaster with a muffled clack, Lee Bomsori leans back and assesses you. Tense silence descends on the living room, almost palpable, and your fingers dig further onto the meat of Xavier’s arm.

Then Jjondeugi barks, and most of the tension dissipate.

Your mother closes her eyes for a brief moment, and with an insouciant smile, says, “Try again.”

Nothing follows. You wait for any further elaboration, until Xavier brings a hand over yours and calmly peels your fingers off him, red marks left in their wake.

“Uh…?”

“You’re clenching your teeth. Don’t give away your nerves when you want to convince someone you’re an item,” she elucidates, so offhandedly as if her very own daughter deceiving her is not the primary issue but the flaws of her acting are.

This time, your arms encircle Xavier’s waist. He stiffens in response. “We are though?”

But your mother is undeterred.

“Darling, I’ve been an actor for more than forty years. I know acting when I see one. Unfortunately, you did not inherit a single drop of my acting talent. That’s probably my greatest failure as a mother. So,” she concludes with a flourish, “try again.”

Dozens of sentences clamor for your mouth, all of them varying permutations of What are you talking about and But we are together and Do you want us to prove to you (that last one is a single, singular sentence among all other sentences, and is actually the first in line to burst out between your lips), but Xavier beats you to it.

“Hello, Ma’am, it’s an honor to meet you. My name is Sim Sunghoon; I like your daughter very much, so it makes me really happy to be her boyfriend.”

It’s said so straightforwardly, like a clean shot, ringing crystal clear in the confines of the apartment. Xavier’s smiling all the while, seemingly earnest, looking like he meant every word. It seizes your breath for a moment, as if it’s not an act and he truly, actually likes you, before the rational part of your mind catches up and you tell yourself that Xavier is a better actor than you could ever be. When you turn to your mother, hoping that she falls for the ruse, Lee Bomsori is scrutinizing the man you’re still embracing as if he’s a butterfly under a magnifying glass.

She still hasn’t spoken, and the lack of reaction is getting to Xavier.

He continues, and you note the undercurrent of panic brewing in his words.

“I do jobs here and there—though that might sound lacking, I swear that I make enough to support her. I’m very capable, and I can do household chores. I can clean and cook—”

“Is that why the kitchen is as it is right now?”

Both of you falter, Xavier blatantly wilting under your mother’s bladed interjection. But committed to the act, he soldiers on.

“Uh, I might have skipped a few steps in cooking when that happened, but I promise to be more careful next time.”

“It’s the thought that counts!” you squeeze in, pushing yourself into Xavier for emphasis and out of desperation. “He’s dedicated—just what I want in a man.”

One eyebrow arches. “I thought,” says Lee Bomsori, first-class actress, and who is definitely unimpressed with all of this, “that what you want in a man is a sharp memory so he could recite all the passages of your favorite books. That what you want in a man is great taste in literature.”

You ignore the sharp turn of Xavier’s head and instead pour all your energy towards your mother. “Dedication! That’s dedication too!”

In turn your mother ignores you. To Xavier, she asks, “How about you, Sim Sunghoon ssi, do you have a favorite book?”

His answer is quick, automatic, like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Like it’s an actual fact of him as Xavier and not Sim Sunghoon. “Her first published novel.”

Your mother’s other eyebrow also arches. “Oh? Now you’re lying.”

“I’m not, Ma’am.”

For some reason—maybe to sell this sham so wholly, you don’t know anymore—Xavier redirects his gaze to you, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself doing something ridiculous like gasping out loud or having your heart skip a beat. His features soft and gentle, sentimental, the perfect leading man in a youthful romantic film. His eyes can dismantle your ribs and build them back again. He looks like starlight given human form.

“I’m being honest,” he continues, blissfully unaware that you’re having an internal meltdown over his fucking eyes and his fucking smile. “I read your novel the year it was published. I read it for an entire month, because I wanted to savor each word and reflect on the themes that were present in it. I wanted to write you a fan letter then, but I thought that you were probably too busy teaching and writing your next book.”

What else can you say after that (fake?) bomb? You swallow a lump in your throat, tamping down the heat building in your cheeks and neck, refusing to be swept away by the emotionality of your reaction.

But this you allow: “You should have written to me. I would have appreciated that letter during that time.”

It hadn’t been an easy year, the time your debut novel was released to the country. The initial reviews had ranged from indifferent to brutal, highlighting your status as the daughter of a famous businessman and a famous actress. Suspicion and skepticism coated each paragraph of published comments and forum posts—how you had coasted along your parents’ money and reputation and managed to get a book deal; how, because you’re a celebrity by association, you only got to write by connections and not talent and hard work; and how—surely, surely!—vapid and lackluster and a waste of paper your novel would definitely be. At the same time, there had been reviews that celebrated your accomplishment—but most of them attributed it to your parents and your family wealth. Each praise tasted bitter because it foregrounded your family status and not the skill and the effort you made in writing the book.

For weeks you had cried in the corners of your office and in your home, dreams interrogated for its legitimacy, a sproutling already dashed flat onto the ground, dark and stained with dirt. Seojun had tried to kill more negative reviews about to be posted, but you stopped him, shaking your head and telling him that the act would just exacerbate things and it would confirm the claims that you had used your status and connections.

It’s fleeting, as if it’s just your imagination: a minute widening of Xavier’s eyes to your words, then his jaw clenching.

“I’m saying it now.” There’s a strength to his tone, something like an oath woven in every syllable, and your chest warms for another reason.

The moment breaks when your mother applauds at the unfolding scene, causing you and Xavier to jump and create distance between each other.

“Passable,” she says, tucking her hands under Jjondeugi’s soft fur, the dog now perched on her lap. “You’re a definitely better actor than my child, Sim Sunghoon ssi.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m not going to ask why you have to pretend that you have a lover, my dear daughter,” Lee Bomsori cuts him off, and Xavier actually flinches. “You will tell me in the future when all of it is over. For now, I’m entertained by your attempts to fool your poor mother. Sim Sunghoon ssi, I know someone who teaches a class on cooking. If you want I could put in a word so you can attend. Also, I could give you some advice on how to act more convincingly as lovers. But only if you want, of course.”

The speed with which Xavier replies: “Of course I want both, Ma’am.”

Satisfaction flickers in Lee Bomsori’s expression.

“Now that’s out of the way, what do you want me to do with the kitchen, darling—a complete renovation, or just replacements for the broken appliances?”

#oh I love this so so much

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